They light no starry candles beneath the torpid moon-- Hovering, haloed lamp to their late feast. The hot moon loads ladles, tops tippler's cups With variable silvers 'til dull water burns. Twittering sprites pursue the moon's endless agenda, Finger-cymbals tittering, scarves awhirl. Mincing laughter, or something remotely more, Blends with bluing bush and shadow. Do dusty moth and pearly cricket attend The midnight manner of their tucking in? Shhh, shhh, whispers little mouse to downy owl, Yellow-eyed. The moon is becoming clouds now.